Home
by CentonEqualsWin
Summary: Steve isn't too sure how to act in this time period. Everything is different. He's out of touch. Where is home? Stony, Steve x Tony. Friendship, maybe the beginnings of a relationship.


"Home"  
Pairing: Steve x Tony (Stony) Strong friendship, perhaps the beginning of a relationship?  
Words: 1,473  
Rating: K (brief mention of frenching, nothing more explicit than that)  
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor am I doing this to earn any money. I am simply using pre-created characters to write a story for my own entertainment, then share it with others who share my interests.

ONWARD!  
_

Steve Rodgers leaves the timeless bar on Grand Street. He can't seek the numbing comforts of alcohol, but the bar is the closest thing he can find that even remotely resembles a building from the '50s. Sometimes, it feels good to escape the futuristic feel of Stark Tower and go somewhere a little calmer, more relaxed. Get away from the crazy era he was shoved into. Steve stands on the curb and waves his hand, grateful when a battered yellow taxi cab pulls over for him.

"Stark Tower, please," he tells the scruffy looking driver as he slides into the back. The driver rolls his eyes and runs a hand over his dark stubble.

"Heya pal, look. That's abou' 40 miles from here. An' it's almost the end of my shif-" the Brooklyn cabbie protests. Steve cuts him off by thrusting a $50 bill up front.

"I'm just as tired as you. Please just take me home." With a grumbled reply, the cabbie drives the soldier away from the old bar.

Steve stares absently outside. He sees beautiful women, strapping young men, stores to buy fashionable clothing. Through the cracked window, he can hear music playing, hear the conversations, smell the air. The ladies are wearing thick, dark makeup, paired with a hairspray and perfume cloud so thick he can smell it ten feet away. Their skirts are short and tight, their tops even tighter. Steve blushes and averts his eyes when he sees a young girl at a stoplight, no older than 15, dressed in a skin tight white tank-top; Natasha refers to them as "camisoles" and assures him they are perfectly acceptable in today's culture, but he thinks they just show far too much skin. Her neon pink polka-dotted bra might as well be the only thing she has on, for as much coverage as the shirt gives. Her short, frayed denim skirt clings to her tiny hips, and her tall wedge-style heels make her legs look even longer. The soldier frowns, and wonders quietly why a girl this age wants to look this way, wants to display her body to the entire world. When Steve glances back up, he gets his answer. Camisole-girl is deeply French kissing a boy her age wearing too-big jeans that pool around his thighs. His backwards baseball cap and "wifebeater" makes Steve cringe. He's not comfortable roaming Stark Tower in his sleeveless shirt when Natasha is around, but this boy is standing on the street with his tongue down this girl's throat. The super soldier sighs for what feels like the hundredth time that night, fondly remembering his own time, when all couples did was hold hands and give light pecks on the dance floor. Thankfully, the light turns green, and Steve no longer has to avoid the couple's displays of affection.

The cab passes by a strip mall, and once again Steve realizes just how out of touch he is. He remembers floaty, knee-length skirts and dresses, collared shirts, khakis with real leather belts. The clothing shown in the brightly lit windows appear gaudy. One bright yellow dress is adorned with far too many rhinestones. A green dress on a mannequin appears almost transparent. A black-and-white striped skin tight dress (that reminds Steve of a prison jumpsuit) is paired up with a huge red-and-gold "statement necklace".

Steve smirks at the red-and-gold, thinking of Tony. The billionaire is certainly made for this time; flashy, bright, confident, sexual, rich. Steve, on the other hand, is made for simpler times. He's from daylight and Mom's apple pie, not fluorescents and McDonald's. Every day, Steve struggles to wrap his mind around this new America. He can barely figure out how to dress without looking like a grandpa, but wearing a shirt with "NIKE" (whatever that is) printed across his chest isn't the most appealing thing. Tony, however, can - and does - roam in this culture daily. He passes all the short skirts and frenching couples and perfume clouds. He braves the bright stores and NIKEs. But somehow, in a way Steve has yet to figure out, he remains Tony. He doesn't morph into what the advertisements and bright lights and blaring music tell him to be. He wears his AC/DC shirts and plays his music a bit too loud in the lab. Tony is himself and confident. But Steve? He feels the way he did before the serum.

Steve Rogers feels lost. He needs to learn how to adapt, learn, change to fit into this culture; yet stay the same, not lose everything that makes the soldier himself... The realization hits him across the face like a strong slap.

Steve is lost.

And Tony Stark is the only one who can help him.

Tony can teach him how to be normal, how to understand and interact in this new culture without being swallowed whole by it. Tony is his life raft in this deep, dark, hairspray and perfume scented ocean. All he has to do is ask for help.

The cabbie ends the long ride at 12:23, pulling up to the brightly lit tower. Steve hands the correct fare to the driver and steps out of the car, staring at Stark Tower as the cabbie drives off. The tower should seem as gaudy and brightly lit as everything else in this frightening town, but somehow, Steve doesn't see it that way. The blue light given off by the tower isn't as strange and new as the stores or streets. The light exactly matches Tony's arc reactor, and it's more familiar. Safe.

Steve walks inside and almost jogs to the elevator, moving fast to make sure he doesn't lose his nerve. He punches in the key for Tony's floor, anxiously bouncing on his toes. The doors slide open with a ding, and Steve walks into the billionaire's living room. As expected, Tony's relaxing on his black leather recliner, nursing a scotch. Tony glances up from the newspaper and smirks at Steve. Before some quip can escape, he catches the worried, anxious look on Steve's face. Tony stands up and cocks his head, taking a step toward the super soldier.

"Rogers? You OK?" Tony rests a comforting hand on Steve's shoulder. Rogers hesitates, not sure how Tony will react. Will he laugh? Mock? Snort and head back down to the lab? He breathes deep and mentally pushes those possibilities aside. It doesn't matter what he might do; Steve knows he needs help, and the only way to get it is to take the first step.

"Steve? Talk to me. Please." Steve looks up at that. Tony never calls him "Steve". It's always "Rogers" or "Capsicle" or some other snarky remark. He looks into the inventor's eyes, seeing a slight tinge of worry and compassion. Steve takes another deep breath, shaking off the rest of his anxiety.

"Tony, I'm... I'm confused. Every day I go out there, and I get shocked by something new. I see how much things have changed, and I'm scared. I'm terrified. I'm so far away from my comfort zone. I feel like I'll never be taken seriously, like I'm weak. Leader of the Avengers, and I can't figure out how to dress appropriately, or what to listen to or how to smell or how to act..." Steve trails off. "Will you teach me?"

Tony wrinkles his brow in confusion. "Teach you to what?"

"How to be normal."

Tony gives Steve a small smile, one that he has never seen before. It's sad and sweet and soft and comforting. A bit of his tension melts away with just that look. "Steve. Listen to me," the billionaire rumbles in a gentle tone, much different from his usual sarcasm. "You don't need to be like those people in magazines or on the streets. You're taken very seriously, and nobody views you as weak because you prefer khakis and collared shirts to jeans and t-shirts. You're strong, kind, chivalrous, and everything this world needs today." Tony looks into Steve's baby blues. "I don't need to teach you anything. You're perfect the way you are, Steve. And as far as feeling away from home? Right here." Tony gestures around the room. "This is home."

Steve smiles, and feels his chest swell with emotion. He grabs the smaller man and pulls him into a hug. Tony reciprocates, rubbing a hand on the soldier's back. After a few moments, they separate, and Steve looks, really looks at Tony. He takes in his kind features, the glowing light of his arc reactor, the soft band shirts he always wears.

He feels safe.

Needed.

Important.

"This is my home," Steve whispers, softly returning Tony's smile.

This may not be his era, but he is definitely home.

~Thanks for reading! Please review!~


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